


Heart of Oak

by TheLightAtLastAndAlways



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28634550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLightAtLastAndAlways/pseuds/TheLightAtLastAndAlways
Summary: A woman waiting for the world to go by. A boy and his guardian seeking a stolen inheritance. And all the adventure and friends they find along the way.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

A persistent, bitterly cold drizzle had made the last two days of travel a misery, with the roads churned to mud and her fingers numb and aching even in rabbit-lined over-gloves. By the time the familiar walls of Glanhoben came into view, Dagny was of an opinion with her horse, who’d hardly bothered to prick his ears as he trudged stoically through the gate.

“Just a little further, sweeting, and then we can both be warm and fed,” she murmured in encouragement as one of his hooves slipped on the mud-slicked cobbles. Gentry’s ears swiveled back toward her and his pace quickened slightly, though with the number of people on the kingsway despite the weather, she wouldn’t have asked much more from him even if he was fresh from the stable.

Before either of those things could happen, however, she’d contracted to deliver a packet of missives from the officers of the army detachment stationed at Haramund to their headquarters in king’s city. She regretted the necessity of riding past the street that led through the Iron Quarter, but she clenched her teeth and kept pressing toward the cliff and castle that crowned it.

At the base of the cliff was Prior Market, the largest public square in the city, and was as usual proving that it was in no way a prior anything—the crowds could make it all but impassible by horse in fair weather, despite regular attempts by the guard to impose order. It was lively then, and terribly loud, but just now there was a certain desperate pall to the whole thing—people who had no choice but to take their trade to their makeshift stalls regardless of the weather.

She’d made it nearly through the square before she glimpsed a familiar face, one that shouldn’t have needed to be out unless she’d done something extraordinarily stupid again.

Kind, yes, but stupid all the same.

“Eleanor,” she greeted curtly as she reined Gentry up alongside one such shelter, her tone carrying the rest of her message for her.

“I know, I know,” the woman—neat but worn, lips pale from cold—replied. “But…they need someone, Dagny. And I need them.”

Eleanor was referring to her habit of taking in more orphans than she could afford to feed without wearing herself to will and bone.

She’d been wealthy, once, and married once too. A lovematch, of all improbable things for the nobility, until it became apparent that she was barren. Then lineage proved more important than all the pretty love they’d professed and her husband had ruined her in the eyes of Anraed by divorcing her. Like in many of the lands where the _inspira_ blew only sluggishly, here women were largely regarded as a kind of inferior race to men—fit to scrub their tables and bear their children and little else.

It was possible, of course, to live outside these expectations, but to do so was also to discard the comfort and security of belonging. Even in a society that didn’t think much of you, there was a certain protection in living in a cage.

Eleanor was braver than most. She’d wanted children, not just for her husband, but for herself and once he’d exposed her to having a very private matter become the gossip of the masses, she’d decided that she didn’t much care for their opinions.

Dagny admired her for that, almost more than she admired her open-hearted nature, but she did wish that Eleanor would be a little more clear-headed about her own limits. By this time, she had near enough children under her care to be almost a guild in its own right. It was only that Eleanor could only offer them the skills that a noblewoman might acquire—largely this involved sewing, but the kind of fine embroidery work that might earn her a decent wage was above the skill of her children and she was too busy looking after them to do it herself. 

Dagny did not need any of the wares Eleanor had on display—largely piece-work quilts and smaller handiwork—but she bought a quilt regardless, pressing a crown into Eleanor’s hand while ignoring the half-hearted protest of one caught between pride and practicality. She called behind her as she reined Gentry back toward the castle, “Go home, Eleanor. You won’t be any good to anyone if your hands are gone with rheumatism and you can’t even thread a needle any longer.”

Ease of gaining access depended largely on who was at the gates—she took on courier work often enough that many of those on the guard rotation recognized her, but it wasn’t a certain thing.

Today she was waved through the gates easily enough, but there was always something of a wait once inside the warren of offices belonging to the superior officers. An enlisted took pity on the messenger and made her a cup of tea. It was more than palatable—most of the men of this office had more experience with a tea service than a sabre—but it was more welcome for being scalding hot than anything else.

The rain hadn’t let up by the time she’d finished and it was with a certain grimness that she dragged her waxed canvas cloak back over her shoulders and latched it over her wool greatcoat. Any body heat that the wool had kept from being snatched by the wind was quickly sapped by the chilled layer of fabric.

They retraced their path along the king’s way back toward the wall, turning onto a less-populated street that had been known popularly as the Iron Quarter for centuries. The mercenary company offices gave way to smelters and smithies along the bend in the river. Dagny dismounted beneath the bare branches of Stone Forest’s guild sign, her knees protesting as they took her weight, before she slipped Gentry’s reins over his head and led him through the narrow alley between Stone Forest’s building and Red Hand’s.

The stable wasn’t much to speak of—space being the most valuable thing in any walled city and the taxes they paid for the for the privilege reflected that—but it was under roof and out of the wind and while Stone Forest might be guilty of stoking the fires only for paying customers, they never stinted on the quality of their feed.

The boy set to watch over the most valuable piece of any mercenary’s kit recognized her and called out, “Awful day to be about, Dagny.”

“You’re not wrong,” she agreed.

“You want a warm mash made up for him?” he asked, coming to hold Gentry’s reins as she shucked both layers of gloves and coaxed loose the knots holding the most essential of her bags.

Dagny largely preferred to look after her beasts herself, but Landon was just coming into fifteen and was fiercely proud of how well he looked after his charges. Black Agnes had taken him in after one of the bitterest winters in Glenhoben’s living memory, more misery and bone than boy, three fingers gone from the frost and with them what little hope there was for a boy without parents or an apprenticeship.

Glenhoben was not a bad city, as such things went, but it was a city all the same and as such subject to the immutable law of human nature that said that the more people that were corralled into any given place, the less compassion there was for any individual in that place. Landon could have taken to beggary or thievery and they would have disdained him or hung him without so much as knowing his name.

“Mash and a good rub-down,” she said, retrieving a couple of bronze coronets from her purse and passing them over to Landon. “That rain’s miserable cold.”

“Treat him better than the king’s beasts,” Landon promised and she left him to it.

Her cloak was shed on the spikes driven into the wall by the door, but the greatcoat would be kept on until she was convinced that it wasn’t snowmelt flowing through her veins. She heard the low murmur of voices from the room beyond and she glanced inside, discovering that Black Agnes was with clients, if the state of the hearth was any indication. 

There was lodging upstairs for the guild members using the office as a waystation and Dagny weighed her hunger against her cold weariness. While she was debating with herself, lingering in the doorway, one of the clients—a boy, perhaps a servant or possibly a son learning his father’s business, though they didn’t look much alike and the man looked too young for that—turned slightly toward her and met her gaze. He smiled at her, as charming as a puppy, loose dark curls flopping down nearly into his dark eyes. Dagny raised her brows in return, but gave him a nod of greeting before she turned away.

If she’d had to face the rain again, she would have gone hungry, but there was a stew on the range with one of Black Agnes’s salamanders curled about the base of the pot. Another was minding the kettle and though the elementals who kept company with Black Agnes could be as temperamental as the woman herself—it was from there that the “Black” came, though she had been dark-haired, once—this time they let her sup without any singed fingers or burned bread.

The lodgings on offer weren’t luxurious, but a clean bed and a working water closet and a chest that she could lock her possessions in were wondrous things when one had gone without. 

Dagny did not require much—she could usually make do with dry stockings—but it was nice, sometimes, to have a pillow beneath her head and the knowledge that she could safely sleep deep on it.

Which is what she did, until she came awake sharply when someone struck her door like they meant to break it down. “Girl,” came Black Agnes’s distinctive voice, “while usually I’d let you sleep, there’s been a request for you. Get dressed and come down.”

Bemused but willing, Dagny did as she’d asked, dressing with more care than she’d have taken if she was dressing for herself—she even shed the shirt she’d slept in and put on a fresh one instead of just tucking the tails into fresh breeches. Yesterday’s breeches were so mud-stained that she’d need to have them laundered instead of merely beating them to a semblance of cleanliness—somewhere in the guild was laundry of hers that another of Black Agnes’s orphans would have been sent to pick up, but she’d been too tired last night to bother seeking it out.

Her pale hair, sun-bleached and rough from lack of care, was twisted up and secured before she buttoned up her double-breasted waistcoat.

As she tromped down the stairs, tugging her shirtsleeves back into place after pulling on her jacket, Dagny wondered at being requested so urgently she’d need to come down to meet a client. If it was a missive that needed the endurance of Gentry’s sylphan bloodline, Black Agnes would have just said so—it wouldn’t be the first time she’d had a message shoved into her hand and been sent out the door with hardly enough time to tuck her shirt into her breeches.

She was surprised to find that it was the same pair from last night waiting before Black Agnes’s desk; the curly-haired boy grinned up at her as she stepped across the threshold.

“This is her, then?” the older man asked. She thought he addressed the question to Black Agnes, but it was the boy who replied.

“Yes! She’s the one—I know it,” the boy insisted. “Please, Galen? You have to offer her the contract.”

If the man found anything strange about the boy’s vehement attachment to a stranger he’d seen exactly once, it wasn’t apparent in his expression. Instead he wore a considering sort of look as he gazed at Dagny. What it was that he was looking for, she didn’t know, but she took the opportunity to study him in return.

Where the boy was very fair beneath his unruly mop of black hair, the older man had pale brown skin, like the people of Sundar or Firdaus, with eyes of unusually clear green and his mane of wavy blanched-wheat hair worn long and clasped back at his shoulder blades. Both were well-dressed in Anraed style, though this wasn’t a surprise. Though it was cheaper to employ mercenaries than to equip and train and keep soldiers, the time and skill of the reputable companies weren’t bought cheaply. 

Anraed fashion, for men and for the women brave enough—or sufficiently in need of the practicality of it—to wear it, was remarkably similar. Fitted breeches, looser for men than for women, tucked into knee-high boots. Fitted waistcoasts worn over white shirts flattered the kind of war-trained physiques that Anraed found the height of masculine beauty and on women were often cut to serve the same purpose as a corset, though they were usually worn with a demi-corset regardless lest one be thought of as loose.

It was considered appropriate to be in shirtsleeves in private before family or longtime friends, otherwise men wore knee-length jackets—women’s jackets fell at a woman’s hemlength, which was to say to the ankle, and with extra fullness in the skirts, though they made no objection to the jacket being split for riding.

Unsavory comments from the kind of man who thought women were made for his looking at, perhaps, but she wasn’t afraid of words and if they took it upon themselves to touch her, they’d asked for what they got.

That wasn’t the way that this man—Galen?—watched her. She waited silently under his scrutiny, even as the boy became even more visibly anxious.

“I’m Galen,” he said at last. “This is Gilbert, my ward.”

She noted the conspicuous absence of surnames, which nobility were usually quick to brandish. And who was to say these given names were not assumed ones as well? She didn’t need to know the whole of it, but gold alone wouldn’t be sufficient to buy her service.

Dagny for was too tired for that.

“We’ve been looking for you _forever_ ,” the boy chimed in.

“Hardly forever. But, yes, it has been difficult to find someone with the skills we require,” Galen clarified, “as well as being agreeable to our terms. As we previous discussed with your guildmistress, there was an…incident concerning Gilbert’s inheritance. We require help in retrieving it—primarily in the form of protection and support as we travel—but we would prefer not to shed any more blood than what has already been spilled. While use of force will be inevitable, we hope that you will exercise the utmost restraint in the taking of life.”

The request in itself wasn’t odd; inheritance was an ugly business, even when it was just a cow or a house at stake, rather than something like a throne—that last could shake an entire country to its bones. Mercenaries were usually brought in even before anyone had breathed their last as possible inheritors marshalled their forces, though that clearly hadn’t happened in this case.

The strange thing was in the request for restraint. Usually it was the case of making certain that the other party was well and truly done for. Not every mercenary would agree to it, as not all the gold in the world would do you any good if you were dead and using nonlethal force against an enemy attempting to kill you was a very good way to find yourself in a pine box bound for the kirkyard.

Still, it shouldn’t have been that difficult to discover someone with enough confidence to make the attempt. Or at least willing to lie about acting with restraint. Her eyes slid over to Black Agnes, wondering what the terms were that they would have such difficult finding someone to take on the contract.

At the very least, they might not be willing to pay until the inheritance was in hand. That would certainly put a damper on the proceedings, especially if they weren’t willing to confess to a name that would be well-known to the company taking the request on. Men would die for love and hate and money—mostly for money, but no one liked to die for empty promises.

“I take it that this inheritance is somewhat larger than a box, if you’re looking to contract a mercenary rather than a thief and you’d rather not have anyone die along the way.”

Galen’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You could say that. There are, however, some particulars of the task that you might find disagreeable aside from blunting your blade, though you should find the sword we are offering as partial payment will make that less onerous. Our destination isn’t in this land, so the time commitment will be significant; we also won’t be able to pay you in full until his inheritance is in our hands, though at that time you can trust that the reward will be generous. You should also know that we intend to recruit only you for the time being—the easiest way to avoid the use of force is to go unnoticed.”

Dagny regarded him silently for moment as she considered the terms of the contract. She wondered at the having retreated to another land entirely to escape persecution; even a small island like this one had three kingdoms on it and at any given point in their history relations between at least two of them were unfavorable to the point that open pursuit would have been difficult.

Had Galen simply been overzealous or was whatever the inheritance happened to be so valuable as to commit to the serious pursuit of a child? If it was the latter, surely there had been guards sworn to the household. How many lives had it cost to come this far?

She trusted that Black Agnes had negotiated the terms of a formal contract before she had brought her downstairs; while there were weaknesses in the armor of the old behemoth, work wasn’t among them. Child involved or no, she’d have demanded a fair price for Dagny’s services.

“So how far, exactly, do you want me to take you?” Dagny asked, relaxing into her seat and crossing one leg over the other as she regarded the pair. Not that there wasn’t any pity to be had for such a puppy-ish lad, but people in desperate circumstances could make use of others in ways they’d never countenance otherwise.

So far she didn’t mind the terms, but there were places she’d just as soon never see again before she died.

“We’ve negotiated with your guildmistress to have you take us to the harbor at Eltness—from there, we can talk about extending your contract.”

There were only three kingdoms on this island and Anraed was currently at war with Cambria. It was an on-again-off-again affair that was almost traditional by this generation; there was a narrow little strip of land caught between them that was by now so blood-soaked that it was said that all the flowers of Loran bloomed red at their heart.

Eltness was the largest of Cambria’s port cities and was located only a few days ride across the border—that is, if one rode directly across those embattled hills. Having recently returned from the frontlines, she knew that the two sides were in an uneasy stalemate as the rain had turned the churned-up fields into treacherous marshland. Recent overuse of magic in the area had brought on the storms and so far no one had been stupid enough to attempt to dispel it.

Once the weather turned fair and fit to travel in, however, the fighting would resume and due to the shape of the duchy of Loran, bypassing it to cross over the border would take weeks. Due to the trade embargo there weren’t any legitimate merchant ships setting their course toward Eltness, though with money enough one could buy passage on a smuggler’s vessel. This came with the usual sort of risks of associating with people whose morality was defined by money, but the outbreak of war had also seen a dramatic rise in piracy.

Not that this was a probable path—if they didn’t have the coin to pay a single mercenary, they wouldn’t have the coin to buy their way on board such a ship.

It was the wrong time of year to sail directly from Glenhoben in any case—the winds that blew along the coastline on which Glenhoben was built wouldn’t make for good sailing along the southern coast until summer came and taking the northern route would take near as much time as going overland.

Gentry had enough sylph blood to cross the marsh safely, but finding another with his bloodlines could prove difficult and expensive since they had to be imported across the sea. As for full elementals, the _inspira_ was so weak here that those of any size couldn’t survive.

It was so much _less_ here, but then so was she, so she supposed they were well suited.

“Shall I be choosing the path and the pace or do you have plans and I’m to be a sword in the sheathe until needed?”

“You’ll do it then?!” the boy asked eagerly.

She thought of the rain and the cold and the weariness, then looked at the clear, guileless eyes of the boy.

There was a sigh in her heart as she said, “Let me look over the contract. If the terms suit, you’ve found yourself a hiresword.”


	2. Chapter 2

Black Agnes had salved the bitterness of not being able to cut people with weapons any longer by learning to cut them with words; she was dangerous in the bargaining and experienced enough to take on favors or unusual artifacts in lieu of hard cash. This combined with her indomitable personality and a hard-earned reputation for only employing mercenaries of skill and character had allowed a medium-sized guild under a mistress of no particular connections to flourish.

With the good-will payment in hand and the guild’s commission in the coffers, they were moved out of Black Agnes’s spacious office and into one of the smaller parlors. Dagny spared a longing glance in the direction of the kitchen as they passed through the hall, but settled into one of the worn chairs instead. Someone would bring tea and something unfilling shortly. 

Galen did not sit. Instead, he seemed to be hesitating, Gilbert watching him with anxious eyes as his hands fell to his belt. Dagny had taken note of the sword there—a longsword by the look of the hilt, which here would be regarded as something of a relic. The kind of thing one kept in one’s family vaults, or perhaps mounted in the study of the head of the family. The scabbard and harness were unassuming, but the hilt—while not entirely clad in gold or awkward with jewels like ceremonial regalia—was finely worked.

Galen unbuckled the whole kit and presented it gravely. “This will stand as your part of the payment. There is—there is magic folded into the steel and it was quenched for permanency. The blade will be as sharp or dull as you desire, which I think you will find useful in carrying out our contract.” 

There were etchings on the quillon that were chased with fading gold leaf, the leather and wire wrapping the hilt already worn from someone’s grip, the shape of the fishtail pommel elegant. Pulling it smoothly from its scabbard, she found it well-balanced, with a blade geometry suited for both slashing strokes and piercing blows.

“Do you like it?” Gilbert asked anxiously.

“It’s a fine piece,” Dagny replied. “I’ll keep it well.”

Here it was as rare and valuable as a horse with thrice Gentry’s sylph blood, but Dagny had a quarterstaff which suited her and whose magic made it far more convenient to carry when one was riding hard on rough roads.

Better that when Gilbert’s inheritance had been secured she had them pay her in something more easily exchanged for coin and less personally dear—there was something about the way that Gilbert followed the path of the sword with his eyes as she set it aside. 

They discuss the logistics of their request, she and Galen, while Gilbert drank the tea and ate the snacks and swung his legs where they didn’t quite touch the ground, looking for all the world like they were planning a picnic.

Dagny ate a proper breakfast once they’d gone, then it was out into the weather to the market. The snap of cold between her teeth was more bearable with hot food in her belly and someone had thought to put her wool greatcoat where the salamanders could get to it. Ash could be brushed off and was far preferable to waiting days for it to dry properly.

With the buildings to block the wind and the rain having largely subsided during the night, it was only a little bit of a misery to go out and take care of the near-mindless business of re-supplying for a journey, even one as fraught as this one stood to be.

Danger didn’t change the manner of things one needed, though those who were wise in the many ways these journeys could go sideways bought more than they expected to use but not so much it couldn’t be carried at speed. 

She was finished with her errands by the time the sun—such as could be glimpsed of it—had crested in the sky.

Dagny intended to make the most of food not made of her own hands while it was there to be had—there were several little eateries in Glenhoben that were well worth visiting, and given that eating out was largely the province of enlisted men and men of the working class and the women who profited from them, they weren’t expensive.

They were also quieter than the public houses and, if not the sort of place where a respectable woman made a habit of going unaccompanied, she was less likely to be troubled by men who’d washed away what little good sense they had.

After she’d finished eating, in some other place she might have people-watched for a while with a pot of tea, but lingering unaccompanied was an invitation for trouble. As she was doing up the clasps of her cloak, she caught sight of the clocktower. It told her she had time left before she needed to return to the guild, but in that narrow slice of sky she watched the clouds march endlessly toward the north-east. Tomorrow she’d follow them in body, but today she let her mind follow them far from the gray streets.

If the season remained so cold and wet—and with the _inspira_ here so sluggish, there was little chance that the magical residue at fault would soon find itself washed away—there would be a massive loss of crops and the kingdom’s reserves were already stretched thin with the long war. Famine would follow, unless disease reared its head first. A starving spring would give way here in Glenhoben to the stench of summer. The river, swollen with spring rain, would overflow its banks with all the filth the unregulated industry of city could manage to dump in its murky waters and flies and other pests would propagate until they were biting black clouds.

A second wave of disease would probably be carried on their wings, in the slums where people otherwise said to be sane bred themselves from an already bad situation into death from overwork and sickness and starvation even in good years.

Anread should feel itself lucky that their companion kingdom in this long war of attrition would be similarly weakened, else this land would soon be governed under a single power.

Tapping her fingers against her breeches in time to the languid tempo of her thoughts, Dagny came to a decision.

The banners of House Haldane snapped in the wind along the walls of their fortified tower, the heavy barred doors open for those who would put their money in the claws of the golden eagle. The tower itself was almost as old as the castle, but the inside was quite modern, with long marble counters staffed by smartly attired clerks and offices for those with business more complicated than depositing or withdrawing money. 

It didn’t take long to be ushered into one of the offices, where a woman with the characteristic red-blonde hair of House Haldane proper rose to greet her. “Catriona Haldane,” she introduced herself. “Please have a seat. What can House Haldane help you with today?”

Dagny withdrew both her identification chit and the gnomeglass token from House Haldane. “I’d like to transfer two-thirds of this account to that of Ms. Eleanor Kerr and have the rest cashed out. Can House Haldane provide a courier service to deliver a letter to Ms. Kerr’s residence tomorrow?” 

“For a modest fee, House Haldane does provide courier services,” Catriona replied while she held the gnomeglass token to the light briefly, before proffering it to the gnome that had been watching Dagny attentively since she’d come in the door. The large, quartzlike glass protrusions along its back shifted like a hedgehog’s spines as it took it in thick claws meant for burrowing. It sniffed it, chuffed, then nodded. “Thank you, Dobri,” Catriona patted its swept-back horns and it gave a pleased thrum and thumped the floor once with its thick tail.

“Everything appears to be in order with your account, so there should be no issue with the transfer of funds. Would you prefer the rest to be cashed out in large or small coinage?”

“By weight, please. I don’t have the letter ready and I have other obligations tomorrow—might borrow some writing things?”

“It’s no problem. It will take Dobri a moment to retrieve the items you’ve requested in any case.” She wrote a number on a small scrap of parchment and the gnome studied it thoughtfully before trundling off. 

Paper and pen and ink were all produced in short order and Dagny considered what she might say.

With the blank expanse of paper sitting there, she considered saying nothing at all, except perhaps a warning about the possibility of coming disaster.

_I wish you would walk more slowly through this world and take the time to praise things of beauty._

A memory saturated in the scent of lilies.

The words had been spoken with the soft wistfulness of one who thought they would be paid no mind. 

The words had been the patter of raindrops on stone to the tyrant for whom they were meant.

Dagny remembered them, though, and had carried them with her as went.

The pen was a solid weight in her hand as she thought about all the things she hadn’t said in the years and days she’d known Eleanor.

 _Do not think of this as charity_ , she began, _because I know that charity hurts your pride and you would rather face the weather and the markets than the pity of those who once were your equals. I am not one of those who will tell you to discard it as a useless affectation, the right and privilege only of those who can afford it. I think that pride is important in all peoples in all places and stations of life—I think it is both what makes them beautiful and makes them capable of creating beautiful things._

By the time she had finished, the paper was so full of words that there was hardly space to sign her name, but she was satisfied.

Setting it aside for the moment to dry, she returned her attention to Catriona.

While she’d been writing the gnome had returned and the representative of House Haldane had a new box waiting at her elbow.

“As requested, we will be cashing this out by weight. The weights, for your inspection.” There was a scale on one side of the desk and a small box near it was offered—inside were certified weights.

The appropriate amount was placed on one side and then the items from the other box were revealed and added one at a time to the scale. Several rings, a necklace, and a few hair ornaments. The workmanship was only moderate, but the skill of their craftsman was irrelevant for their purpose. What mattered was that they were pure gold, easily sold for their weight, without the trouble of exchanging coinage stamped with some other king’s face once you crossed borders.

She frowned at one of the additions. It was a hairpin, long and slender and not suited for the kind of hairstyles favored by the ladies of this land. The motif, too, was foreign—a bird whose flowing tail formed the bulk of the pin. It was elegant and exquisite and that made it an unusual addition to a lot such as this.

Catriona must have caught her frown. “Is something wrong? The style is strange, but the gnomes have approved the quality of the metal.”

“No, nothing. Just, as you said, the style is strange.”

The weighing was soon finished and, her business concluded, she soon left House Haldane and returned to the guild.

“The shops delivered your things,” Black Agnes called up to her as Dagny reached the top of the stairs. “I didn’t think you’d actually take it on, you know. I’ve known you a handful of years now and you’ve never shown much interest in anything beyond courier work.”

“It is courier work,” Dagny retorted wryly. “Of a sort.”

Black Agnes barked a wry laugh. “Live letters are very different to deliver. Not that I think it’ll do you ill to live in the world for once, instead of a step to the right and looking on. You’ve always been a strange one, Dagny, from the day you rode in on that sylph-blooded beast of yours. Those of us in this business aren’t usually here by accident. We’re hunting for something in all this blood and mess. Glory, maybe. Gold, certainly. You don’t seem moved by either. I’ve never seen anyone whose sword could be bought that seemed more willing to wait for the world to pass them by. And I say this when I’ve met people looking to make up for past wrongs and those seeking out death wherever they can find it. What are you waiting on, girl?”

“Nothing but the wind to shift,” Dagny replied. “Agnes, this will be the last time I ride out under a Stone Forest contract. I’m leaving Anread.”

Black Agnes surveyed her narrowly. “It’s your right, of course, but first answer me this. You don’t seem the type, but it occurred to me that perhaps you were merely biding your time in hiding without any expectation of being able to make a clean break. You’re not running from some man, are you? A husband? A father? Some unholy alliance of both? Because if you are, Stone Forest doesn’t stand with a man’s right to treat a woman as something he owns.”

Dagny laughed. “No. Not at all. But I thank you for your care.” She sobered, then, because this woman had been very fair to her while she sheltered under her roof. “It will be a hard spring. Take care of them, Agnes.”

“Worry more about yourself. Stone branches don’t easily break.”


End file.
